


pale blue underwear

by laedymoonarchive



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laedymoonarchive/pseuds/laedymoonarchive
Summary: --- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---summary: you get yourself into an incriminating situation with your flatmate ben. based upon; “take off your clothes. slowly.” “let me watch you touch yourself.” “mine. only mine.”wordcount: 3.7kwarning: a little fluff, smut 18+; masturbation (f), protected sex (wtf), thigh riding, over stimulation, a little dom/sub dynamics, flatmates to lovers
Relationships: Ben Hardy & You, Ben Hardy/Reader, Ben Hardy/You
Kudos: 8





	pale blue underwear

**Author's Note:**

> \--- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---
> 
> summary: you get yourself into an incriminating situation with your flatmate ben. based upon; “take off your clothes. slowly.” “let me watch you touch yourself.” “mine. only mine.”
> 
> wordcount: 3.7k
> 
> warning: a little fluff, smut 18+; masturbation (f), protected sex (wtf), thigh riding, over stimulation, a little dom/sub dynamics, flatmates to lovers

ben jones is a complex character.

he’s a puzzle you can’t crack. a rubix cube you can’t solve.

you’ve always discreetly prided yourself on your ability to read people - but your blonde flatmate is one you’re yet to figure out.

ben struck you as slightly cold when you first met him, a quick coffee date to ensure that you were both who you claimed to be over airbnb apartment share.

 _maybe he’s shy_. you’d analysed. _probably the kind who only warms up to his closest friends._ you thought you had him pegged. that was until he’d cracked some stupidly juvenile joke about the donuts you’d ordered looking like tits, and you were back to square one.

his utterly confusing behaviours didn’t let up upon your arrival in the cramped, fifth floor flat, either. ben’s stoic one moment and laughing like a child the next - almost as if he feels the need to pull back every time he loosens up a little. and how you wish he wouldn’t. the glimpses you get of warm, funny ben are kindling to the embarrassing little crush you’ve developed on your flat mate.

but really, who could blame you? you were convinced the minute you saw him that, had he attached his own photo to his airnbnb request, he would have been inundated with offers.

you thought ben was gorgeous with his floppy golden hair and eyes like sea glass alone. and then, on your second night in the new place, he’d strolled through to his room after a shower, towel slung around his waist and droplets of water falling from his hair to the small of his back.

it had hardly been a coincidence that that was the first night in a while that your hand had crept towards your waistband, though you’d pretended that ben’s glistening, post-shower abs had nothing to do with it. 

since then, your flat mate’s helped you get yourself off more times than you’d care to admit; imagining his low, cadenced voice muttering into your ear and his long, elegant fingers fucking you relentlessly always makes for an amazing high.

like tonight, for example. you had actually planned on having a productive evening, for once. perhaps finishing your global politics essay and sending it off to your teacher before she awards you yet another late mark. _it’s not your fault you’re a perfectionist_. plus, ben’s informed you earlier that he’s not planning on going out, and having him only a hop skip and a jump away isn’t exactly ideal for your privacy.

but your plans were shot to bits only an hour ago, when you’d entered the laundry looking for a bandaid and came across ben folding the washing.

“‘ve we got any plasters?” you lent across the counter to check the cabinets, your torso temporarily obscuring ben’s access to the basket.

ben replied with little expression “under the sink. what’ve you done to yourself?”

“cut it on the grater.” you cringed, your voice muffled as you crouched under the sink. ben’s somewhat of a whiz in the kitchen, and you were embarrassed to have made such a rookie faux pas.

“can you grab me one, too? got a splinter from my drumsticks.”

 _ah, the drumsticks_. how you despise them.

during your first week in the unit, you’d been studiously bent over your books in your room, only to have the silence shattered by the crackle of a snare drum. _if he’s a bloody drummer_ , you’d fumed, _he should’ve put it in his fucking profile_. you’d slammed down your pen and stormed out, but something stopped you from going off at him; then, and every time since. you always find yourself distracted by how he twirls the drumsticks around his fingers, mesmerised at his tongue poking out in rhythmic concentration. you’ve never been able to bring yourself to start a fight with him after that. it’s completely and utterly _unfair_.

“sure.” you passed him a plaster and wrapped your own around your index finger, smiling when you noticed ben tending to the same one.

“hey.” he grinned, suddenly engaged with you, and pressed his blue-wrapped finger tip to yours. it was a rarely sweet moment for the two of you - and one that was completely ruined when you looked down at ben’s left hand to see your blue lace panties, the nicest ones you own, hanging off his finger.

ben followed your gaze, a blush falling on his cheeks as he unfolds the item in his palm.

“oh. shit, sorry.” he stammered, attempting to drop them back into the washing basket, only to discover the lace caught on the silver ring on his index finger.

a blush fell on your cheeks as your eyes locked; neither of you quite sure what to say, and yet convinced you should say something. after all, you’re both adults. and they were just underwear.

 _the underwear you wore last time you came, thinking about him_. you reminded yourself. how painfully awkward. almost to the point of being funny. you had let yourself giggle a little at that, to ease the tension more than anything else. and as soon as you began to laugh, ben’s face broke open into a warm smile.

“fuck.” he muttered, dropping his head, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“can i have those back?” you hooked your finger around your pants in an attempt to free them.

“don’t know. i quite like them.” he lifted his arm above his head, your t-shirt riding over your hip bones as you strained to reach it.

“get your own, ben. you’re too thick for mine.” you mocked anger at his suggestion and made a final grasp at his arm.

“alright! don’t get your knickers in a twi- _shit!_ ” you hooked your fingers through the lace of your underwear, twirling them around your finger triumphantly. ben grabbed at your wrists, his hands falling to your hips with your own.

it was only then, as the giggling ceased and your heart rate slowed that you realised how close you were to each other in the cramped laundry. how all you could think about was ben to turning you around and fucking you, all red faced and chests heaving and his hands burning into the skin of your waist.

you glanced down at your hands, trying to ball those bloody underwear into your fist and out of view.

ben dropped his grip on you after a beat of silence and cleared his throat.

“sorry.” he muttered, pressing the laundry basket to his crotch and pushing past you out the door. _what for?_ you’d wanted to say.

you knew you’d have no hope of concentrating on study after that - not with the rough pads of ben’s fingers grazing your hip bones and encircling your wrists burnt into your memory. so there’s really no point in trying. at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you settle onto the mountain of pillows at your bed head.

 _be quiet, be quiet, be quiet._ you chant, trailing shapes over the soft insides of your thighs. you tilt your head back contentedly as your fingers dance towards your cunt and circle your clit with teasing flirtation.

“god, _ben_.” it comes without thought; you’ve almost convinced yourself that the hand reaching for your breast - bare beneath your faded coldplay t-shirt - belongs to the oblivious blonde in the next bedroom.

it’s almost impossible to stay quiet when you begin pumping into yourself with two fingers, grinding your hips enthusiastically against the pillows below you.

 _one tiny moan could be anything, couldn’t it?_ ben’ll be none the wiser. probably won’t even hear it. you tilt your wrist so your fingers brush fleetingly at your g spot and release a lengthy whimper.

your phone buzzes from its place atop your bare thigh and, as you glance down at it, your fingers freeze their impetus inside of you. an imessage notification, illuminating your phone screen with four words that make your skin crawl and your face burn.

 **flatmate ben:** i can hear you.

fuck. _fuck_.

you barely allow yourself a breath. in fact, if you could stop your heart from beating purely so ben won’t hear it thumping against your chest, you would. you remove your fingers, despite the aching pressure in your core and wipe your arousal on your thigh.

i can hear you.

i can hear you as in, can you shut up?

i can hear you as in, i want to be hearing you?

or simply; i can hear you. just letting you know. trying to save you some embarrassment.

what if this isn’t the first time? what if he’s been suffering through nights with his pillow clapped over his ears for weeks, trying to pretend that the whimpers and moans emerging from his flatmates bedroom are purely the result of some over-exertive yoga.

and shit, his name - you didn’t even realise.

_you’ve fucking moaned out his name._

how awkward. the poor thing.

you can’t imagine what on earth you’d do if you ever happened to walk in on ben having a tug. rutting into his hand, stuttered gasps falling under the door, his pretty mouth hung open in an- okay, maybe you do know what you’d do. but now’s definitely not the time.

now’s the time to compose a text message that somehow gets you out of this entire shit hole and, ideally, keeps you from facing so much embarrassment that you have to find another flat.

too bloody easy.

you reach for your phone, debating whether or not you’ll be able to find a cosmo article on this exact situation. but, before you can search for “flatmate heard me wanking”, your phone buzzes again.

 **flatmate ben:** didn’t mean to stop you. let me hear you touch yourself.

what. the fuck.

your mind doesn’t know where to rest. you feel as though you’ve got mental whiplash, turning from embarassment to elation to simple fucking confusion.

ben could be joking, of course. but you severely doubt it. there’s something about the staggering silence from his side of the wall, no snickering or stifled laughter, that makes you think he’s dead serious.

and so, purely because you’ve got nothing left to lose, and because this is _everything you’ve wanted since meeting the guy_ , you obey - twisting your lace panties aside to allow yourself access. ben seems to be requesting a show, and fuck, are you going to give him one.

you begin with light mewls as your circle your entrance, dropping a harsh gasp whenever the tip of your nail grazes your clit.

knowing ben is somewhere, listening, picturing you all splayed out for him makes it all the easier for you to slip two fingers into your wet cunt, thrusting with a harsh erraticity that produces some sinfully erotic noises.

but it’s time to step it up.

 _moans, that should do it._ shameless and exaggerated and increasing in volume as you roll your hips against your hand, your wrist pushing at your overly sensitive bundle of nerves.

“fuck, ben!” you draw his name out to three syllables as your fingers brush at your g spot, just shy of the length needed to reach it properly. your phone lights up again, the vibration sending a jolt up to your core from its place on your thigh.

 **flatmate ben:** get in here. now.

you grin to yourself devilishly as a thought occurs and, as you spring off the pillows, you momentarily tug off your pyjama shorts and replace the panties underneath with the freshly washed pair dangling from your doorknob. the pair with a tiny lace thread hanging off them, snagged on ben’s silver ring.

———————

your hands are on each other before you’ve made it halfway through the door - exploring the skin and curves and lips you’ve been lusting after for months as you pull his shirt over his head wordlessly.

 _fuck, he’s beautiful_. a bloody blonde adonis. all sculpted muscles and broad shoulders.

ben’s mouth is just as hungry as your hands, sucking hickies to claim its territory down the column of your throat and coming back to yours to take your bottom lip between his teeth. there’s a frenzied, feverish desperation in the way you kiss each other - perhaps he’s been wanting this just as long as you have.

ben pulls away from you suddenly, leaving you whimpering and teetering close to a much needed release

“what’re you doing?” it’s supposed to be coy, but really it’s desperate _. you need him_. now that you’ve tasted him, your own fingers certainly aren’t going to be enough.

“watching.” ben sits back on his haunches, running a thumb over his bottom lip. “go on, want you to take off your clothes for me.”

 _shit. for a blonde, he really is a dark fucking horse_. you slip your shorts down your thighs, reaching hastily to add your shirt to the pool at your feet before ben tuts at you.

“slowly, love.”

you nod, eager to obey his every command. whatever will get you his touch. your painted nails drift over your skin, goosebumps pebbling as you pull your shirt up with them. ben’s eyes roam you shamelessly, hungrily, and he reaches for your wrist.

he pulls you to straddle his clothed thigh, the rough fabric stimulating your clit through the thin lace of your underpants.

“such a pretty thing.” you throw your head back while ben peppers your décolletage wet with kisses, his voice low and sultry. “i’ll make you a deal.”

you nod eagerly and ben chuckles. “you can fuck yourself on my thigh, and if you cum, i’ll give you my mouth. sound fair, angel?”

you begin to rut your hips into ben’s leg before he’s barely finished talking, so pent up and ready to finish that you’d frankly fuck a pillow if it meant you could orgasm anytime soon. you move slowly at first, and then faster, throwing your palms against ben’s soft, bare chest. his fingers reach to tug your panties to the side, but apart from that, his touch deserts you.

how _desperately_ you could fuckin use those deftly elegant fingers rubbing circles on your clit, your own being too shakey to get the job done properly.

“fuck.” you whine as you chase your release. it’s painfully out of reach, the pressure on your clit just shy of enough. “need more.” you whimper.

“gotta speak up, baby.” ben pouts.

“need more.” you cringe at your tone. ben’s evidentially amused by your neediness; your flushed cheeks and pleading whimpers, but he obliges all the same, tensing his thigh beneath you so you gasp.

“oh, _fuck_.” you whine, gripping at ben’s shoulders until your knuckles pale and angling yourself _just so,_ every sweet of your hips toe curlingly pleasurable. “ _ben_.”

“don’t let me stop you, sweet girl.” his lips are bitten pink and his hands hold firm on your waist. ben’s voice wavers just a little from its even cadence at the sight of you coming undone before him. “make a mess all over my thigh.”

you let yourself shatter into an orgasm with a final tilt of your hips, throwing your fists against ben’s chest in an attempt to ground yourself amongst the sensation.

“thank you.” you mutter when your high begins to lull.

“my pleasure.” his voice takes on _that_ _edge_ again - the one that makes your stomach crackle without him having to lay a finger on you.

ben takes you at the midriff to lay you down. he looks all the more ethereal leaning over you, the dim light haloing his blonde locks.

“so beautiful.” he mutters, pressing chaste kisses over your bare skin. from your collar bones to the valley of your breasts, bridging between your hip bones, at the apex of your thighs. stamping you with his rarely full lips. “and mine. only mine.”

“only yours.” you gasp as his mouth reaches your pussy. his kisses turn hungrier - lips sucking at the wetness soaked into your panties.

“these fuckin things.” he mutters. “had to go sort myself after touching them. couldn’t bloody stop picturing you in them. and out of them.”

 _wait - he’d been getting off over you, too?_ you almost laugh at the irony.

“get rid of them and you won’t have to picture it anymore.” you try to make it sound like a demand, but really it’s a plea; your breathlessness giving you away as you arch your back so ben can slide the pants down your thighs, the leg hole notching on his bedpost as he tosses them backwards.

and before you have time to consider how appropriate it is that they should end up there —having started the whole bloody escapade— ben fucking _attacks_ you, eating you out as if you’re his last meal.

there’s no teasing your folds with his delicate tongue, no fanning cool breaths against your core. ben’s straight into you; one finger curled in your slick cunt while his lips wrap around your aching clit.

“ _jesus_ , ben.” you pant. you grasp at the blonde strands tickling your thighs, steadying yourself as you rut desperately against his mouth. it’s euphorically painful, the way he’s pressing at your bundle of nerves - too, _too_ much and then so numb it’s not enough.

“g-gonna cum.” you whine, electricity crackling in your stomach with worrying intensity - you know a second orgasm in such a short amount of time will make you _painfully_ sensitive. but you really don’t have much say in the matter, with ben’s tongue fucking you mercilessly and his sharp nose nudging at your sensitivity.

he encourages your orgasm with a flick of his tongue over your clit, slinging a strong arm over your lower stomach to keep you still as you collapse into your high. it’s fast but intense, slamming into your senses and causing you to twist at ben’s hair in a way that makes him moan against your cunt.

and, _fuck_ , you could almost cum again at the sight of him licking every last drop of your arousal, emerging from your thighs with slicked lips which he presses to yours.

you reach between the two of you the tug at ben’s waistband, and he chuckles at your impatience.

“c’mon” you whine. ben obliges, rolling you on top of him to allow you proper access. he arches his back slightly in the same way you did so you can rid him of his joggers and boxers, growling when your nails drag over his soft skin.

“want you inside me.” you mutter, kissing at ben’s happy trail. “‘ve wanted you inside me since we met.” where the sudden candor came from, you’re not sure. all practical thought seems to have deserted you tonight, anyways.

“hold on.” ben mumbles as you move to straddle him. he gives you a knitted-eyebrowed smirk and reaches for his bedside table, muscles in his shoulder blades rippling at the strain.

“here.” you take the packet from his hands, rolling the latex down his pretty cock, giving the head a chaste kiss.

“jesus christ.” ben growls as you readjust yourself above him. he grasps at your waist bruisingly, the rough pads of his thumbs brushing over your hip bones. “you wanna ride me, darlin?”

you let out a mewl as one of his hands drifts to your breast “please.”

ben lifts you without warning, using his hold on your torso to guide your hips onto his cock.

“shit, ben.” you moan —on top but not at all in charge, surrendering to the rhythm he sets.

“so fucking tight, baby.” ben arches and throws his head back, making you feel even fuller than before. “squeezing my cock with that pretty cunt of yours.”

your moans aren’t even coherent by this stage, ruined by the head of ben’s cock nudging at your g-spot, his knuckles brushing your swollen clit, his low growl.

“you sensitive love?” ben grunts, smirking slightly when you keel over at the slightest sensation on your clit.

“y-yeah.” you stutter.

ben removes a hand from your hip, leaving you to continue his hard and fast pace. he takes it to your cunt, thumbing at your clit and twisting it until your third orgasm is ripped from you with an impressively pornographic moan —clear liquid coating your thighs and ben’s lower stomach.

ben raises an eyebrow incredulously at your arousal. “holy shit.” he breaths, thrusts becoming stuttered and erratic as he chases his high in the wake of yours.

luckily, he finds it within a matter of seconds. you’re not sure you would’ve been able to take coming for a fourth time. ben finishes in a flurry of grunts and whimpers, surprisingly pretty compared to his usual sultry tone.

“jesus christ.” you exhale when he finishes. you pull yourself off him and drop down on the bed, snuggling into his shoulder. “‘ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“think i didn’t know that?” ben chuckles, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

your cheeks redden. “shit. really?” _he had heard you, then._

“you weren’t exactly subtle.” he laughs, throwing an arm over the curve of your waist. “didn’t think i was, either.”

you scoff. “are you serious?”

“mm.”

“ben, i wasn’t sure you even liked me at all, let alone _like that_.” you nod towards his naked cock.

“don’t be daft. course i did.”

“you had a funny way of showing it.” you push his chest lightly.

“s’pose i was a little distant. i was trying to avoid exactly this. thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to get involved if we still have to live together.”

_a good point. but too late to contemplate, now._

“what made you change your mind, then?”

ben twists his mouth into a boyish smile. you can already tell his reply is going to be at least a little juvenile. he reaches above him, twisting his shoulder to snatch your underwear off the bed post. “these.”


End file.
